


(I'd Be) The Voice That Urged

by sirenseven



Series: SladeRobin Week 2020 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Bottom Damian Wayne, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, M/M, Painful Sex, Size Difference, Top Slade Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27193307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenseven/pseuds/sirenseven
Summary: This—this is not supposed to happen. Not to Batman’s heir, not to the Demon’s Head’s. Certainly not toRobin, which is why Wilson is clearlylying.
Relationships: Damian Wayne/Slade Wilson, past Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson - Relationship, past Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, past Tim Drake/Slade Wilson
Series: SladeRobin Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985105
Comments: 18
Kudos: 109
Collections: SladeRobin Week 2020





	(I'd Be) The Voice That Urged

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1: _Daddy Kink_
> 
> As always, read those warnings and make sure you want to continue!

“You’re a liar,” Damian spits. Focusing on Deathstroke’s words is his only distraction from the awful stretch as the man breaches him.

If only his words weren’t so disgusting.

“Hand to god, kid,” Wilson says.

He snaps his hips sharply. Damian bites down on his cheek, refusing to make a sound as their pelvises slam together and pain lances up his body again. Deathstroke holds his legs tightly, spread around his own. At least Damian has kept _most_ of his uniform on, back protected from the rough warehouse floor by his tunic. He clenches his fists behind his neck. His elbows have been forced out, wrists tied to his throat, so if he moves them too much he chokes himself. He has no intention of moving and giving this horrible man what he wants.

This—this is not supposed to happen. Not to Batman’s heir, not to the Demon’s Head’s. Certainly not to _Robin_ , which is why Wilson is clearly _lying_.

“Now Drake, he was begging by the end of it,” Wilson continues, leaning over the length of Damian’s body to stare him in the eyes. He is so tall and Damian so—so pre-growth spurt that he knows is coming, condensed more by his turned-up hips, that Wilson has to curl over to line their faces up.

His snapping hips turn to a grind. Though it forces his penis deeper into Damian’s passage than anything is meant to go, he is still loathsomely grateful for the less painful motion. Damian turns his face aside, refusing to gratify the eye-contact, even if his cheek rubs harshly against the concrete. 

Unfortunately, this just positions Wilson at his ear. “Oh, he started out whining and complaining like you—”

“I do not _whine_ —”

Wilson tugs on his elbow, and the words choke off as the rope around Damian's neck tightens in response. His head instinctively follows the motion, trying to regain air.

The man continues like there was no interruption. “Drake’s as bitchy as you when he sets his mind to it. Insisting he hated it, wanted to stop, wouldn’t get off...” Wilson shifts his hips for testing little thrusts, and for a moment Damian feels a discordant jolt of sensation. He grits his teeth. “But he couldn’t hide how much he loved it forever. Sluts always show their colors. Rode me himself once he got over it, _begging_ Daddy to let him come just one more time.”

Damian takes a harsh breath, refusing to provide the reaction Wilson wants. When he speaks, his voice is furious but level. “You are _lying_. Drake would never beg the likes of you.” His predecessor may have flaws, but Damian has found a growing respect for him in recent months and on this he is certain.

Wilson shrugs as if to say, _Believe what you will_. He jabs right into that spot of sensation, and Damian has to tighten his throat to restrain a moan.

“Now, Todd...” Wilson starts.

Damian snarls. Wilson said all three brothers, but if he think Damian is just going to let him prattle on...

Before he can form the thought, he suddenly finds himself jerked up, airway strangled in the jostling movement, until he grabs onto the back of his head to keep the ropes together. He finds himself seated on Wilson’s lap, glancing down a moment before grimacing and looking away. Wilson appears fully clothed minus his mask, the missing codpiece hidden beneath Damian, but his own hips are lewdly bared to the world between red tunic and ripped black leggings.

“Todd was on board from the start.” Wilson jerks Damian up and slams him back down, earning a choked gasp. Damian grips onto his own hair, locking his elbows to stop them from flapping as the bounce continues. “Wanted a new daddy to fuck him, and who am I to say no?”

Damian’s lips are pressed so tightly together between his teeth that he can feel blood drawing. This angle is even worse, Wilson’s genitalia somehow seeming larger than before. His hole already feels raw and broken. When is Wilson going to be _done_?

A smack to his buttocks startles out a hiss.

“He liked that one,” Wilson says. “Always asking Daddy to hurt him, punish him, make him be good.” At Damian’s scowl, he only grins. “Ah, well, guess it’s not for everyone.”

Damian wants to argue back, deny the claims, but he has no small fear that if he opens his mouth to speak something wordless will come out. He settles for glaring at Wilson with all the fury he possesses. Fury is good, keeps him burning instead of wallowing. The anger is preferable to shame for letting himself fall into this situation; humiliation for the reactions he’s been unable to suppress; concern that Wilson may not be lying, at least not entirely; growing _fear_...

Surely it will be over soon. Damian is not, perhaps, an expert in sexuality yet—he thought he had more _time_ —but these affairs don’t last forever. It only feels like forever. Wilson has kept constant stimulation around his—around his penis; surely he will finish soon.

The bounce suddenly stops. Damian looks warily at Wilson, not daring to hope this is his prayed for end.

He shows none of the expression Damian would expect to mark it. Instead, he considers Damian. He pushes some of Damian’s sweaty hair back, mouth twitching in a smile when the boy tries to jerk away without choking himself.

“Now Grayson...” Damian doesn’t tense; he _doesn’t_ tense. “He’s always been my favorite. Hear he’s yours too, huh?”

“He bears no such affection for you,” Damian sneers. Perhaps, he admits, perhaps he does not know Drake or Todd quite well enough to say. The relationships may have improved, but they still are distant enough to allow for secrets. But he _knows_ Grayson. He knows Grayson, and he knows how Grayson feels about Deathstroke, and whatever ridiculous story Wilson will spin about Grayson wanting him Damian will know is full of lies.

“Don’t have to tell me, kid,” Wilson sighs, a mockery of self-pity.

Damian is tipped back, hitting the ground again. For a moment, Wilson slips out. It’s the most breathing room he’s had since this begun, and Damian immediately takes the chance to kick out, try to break Wilson’s nose—only to have both his ankles caught.

“Him I just had to force,” Wilson says. He holds Damian’s ankles steady even as the boy thrashes, slowly pushing them up and up and up. “Flexible guy, Grayson. Tries to wriggle out of everything. Had to get creative for him.” Damian’s ankles reach his ears. It’s a stretch, but not a painful one thanks to Grayson’s training. The thought only lead his mind to picture how Wilson restrained him, images Damian balks from. “Looks like some of that rubbed off on you.”

Wilson smirks at his own phrasing and Damian scowls back. He wants to snap something snide and proud, like he has a hundred times before, but he can’t come up with it.

“Liar,” he says again, though he’s not sure he believes it anymore.

His bared bottom is cold against the concrete. There’s significant relief to being empty, but the chill lingers particularly at his broken-open, gaping entrance. When Wilson lines up again, it’s immeasurably worse than the first time. Damian has more than pride and guesswork now; he knows how it feels. It hurts worse when Wilson thrusts into his already abused hole.

“No, really,” says Wilson, squeezing his folded up ankles. “Honest compliment, kid.”

He pulls back, and then snaps in again, setting to a much faster pace than before without hesitation. A gasp is punched out of Damian against his will, legs burning at the stretch, pelvis just _burning_ , ropes around his neck and wrists jostling with each thrust. He tries to regain control of himself, silence the sounds, but Wilson only slams in harder until each jolt pushes out whimpers and yelps.

“He begged Daddy too, just like the rest.” Wilson’s tone is only mildly effected by the effort, while Damian is left a mess.

He gives up on silencing himself. “You just said he didn’t want it,” Damian says, voice hitching with the thrusts on every other word, not the sneer he intended. “Can’t even keep your story straight.”

“Didn’t say what he begged _for_ ,” Wilson says. Without faltering in pace, he mockingly adopts a voice too high and weak to be Grayson’s: “ _Daddy, please. Stop, Daddy, please._

“So do you all have such daddy issues because the Bat fucks you too, or just because you want him too?”

Damian snarls. “My father would never— _ah_!”

Wilson hits right against that spot he tapped before and keeps on it. Damian’s head drops back, mouth uncontrollably hanging open in whimpers. Shocks of—of _pleasure_ shoot out from his groin, not nearly enough to overcome the pain and humiliation and fury, but still _wrong_. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like this; he doesn’t like this; he wants to _stop now_.

“Get—off—” 

“Tell you what,” Wilson says, so casual Damian can’t tell if he’s responding or just continuing his monologue. “You beg me too, and I’ll even listen. Daddy’s good to his little sluts. You can even pick which brother you want to be like. Want to be a whore like Drake, begging Daddy for more, to let you come, to keep going? Painslut like Todd, begging Daddy to hurt you? You can even be like Grayson, ask Daddy to stop. Say please, though. Sluts don’t get to be rude.”

“Go. To. Hell.” Damian squeezes his eyes shut, twisting aside. Looking at Wilson only stabs into his heart, and seeing the beams and dangling lights beyond him, so close and so unreachable, drives the knives deeper.

“Can’t be that hard, kid,” Wilson taunts. Damian’s ankles are suddenly released, and then hot breath is hitting his face as Wilson flattens over him. “I almost _was_ your daddy.”

 _Father_ , Damian thinks. He didn’t want anyone to come and see him like this, didn’t want his humiliating defeat witnessed, perpetually believed he could get out with just one more second’s work. He would take the rescue now, though, shame be damned. If father wants to show up now, he would take the rescue.

“Grayson cried.”

“He didn’t,” Damian gasps out, though as Wilson continues the unending assault he feels like crying himself. “Grayson is strong.”

“He is,” Wilson agrees. “Impressed myself, how well I could take him down. Sobbed like a baby. Begged me to stop. Begged _Daddy_.”

Damian shakes his head, skull grating against the concrete. Even the prickling pain of a scrape can only steal his attention for a moment.

“’Course, Todd was begging Daddy from the beginning.” Damian feels Wilson chuckle against his face as much as he hears it. “Would’ve called me anything. Would’ve loved it. Cried from the fucking relief of getting what he wanted.

“Drake cried too, though that might have been all the bliss,” Wilson continues, voice getting strained. His thrusts are no softer, but he grinds at the end of each, like he’s trying to somehow carve deeper. “Went so many times with him he was full to bursting. Bloated up with so much come it _hurt_ , but he still kept asking for more. Didn’t even argue calling me Daddy.”

A hand presses over Damian’s stomach, startling his eyes to open, looking down like he might see a horrible bump already there. All he can see is Wilson’s uniform covering his own.

Wilson grins, shark-like, right in front of his face. “Wanna know how it feels?”

“You’re—” Damian’s breath hitches, but this time not for a body-shaking thrust, but for the tightness of his own chest, burning of his own eyes. “You’re _disgusting_.”

“Add one more word and you can start getting what you want,” Wilson murmurs, hot against his face, before abruptly pulling up.

He looms over Damian, thrusting once, twice, three times, before stilling deep inside and shuddering with a loud groan. Damian can’t tell if he feels it or just imagines he can, bursting warmth and wetness and pressure inside. He glances down to his tunic-covered stomach in a sudden panic, terrified he’ll find it expanding out.

He can’t see any change.

Despite himself, Damian washes over in relief. Wilson was lying, he must have been, about at least some parts. Damian is not swelled up, is not weeping and begging, has stopped himself from even shedding a tear. He has made it to the end, and Wilson is done—

Wilson is...Wilson is still firm and enormous inside him, unchanged despite his release. He catches Damian’s eye, something sinister twinkling in his own—and begins rocking again. Slow at first, but already picking up speed, ready to resume his horrific pace, tear Damian up until there’s nothing left.

“No,” Damian breathes.

Wilson grins, grabbing his waist this time, dragging Damian up and down on the floor as much as he moves himself. “I’m listening.”

“Stop.” He sounds foolish, weak, childish, but he can’t—he can’t—

“Wanna be like your brothers?”

Deathstroke is lying. He’s a liar. He didn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t have; the others are strong, stubborn, proud. But Damian was supposed to be strong too. He would take a rescue now, please.

“ _Please_.” Damian squeezes his eyes shut, feels the first tears threaten to escape as Wilson hits a punishing rhythm again, a pace he’ll never ever stop. “ _Daddy, please stop_.”

It’s a desperate plea. Damian is grasping foolishly at straws, already lambasting himself for giving in so easily to a liar’s promise.

He’s so startled when Deathstroke _does_ stop that he gapes.

“Huh,” Wilson says. “Well, I’m a man of my word.”

And then, very slowly, he drags himself out of Damian’s body. Damian splays on the ground, legs like jello, either too hurt or too shocked to try moving. His entire body trembles, fingers flexing and curling against his neck, as Wilson rises to his feet.

“None of the others gave in half that easy,” Wilson muses, perhaps to himself, fitting his codpiece back into place despite the hard penis beneath. “Had to go for ages with them. All night, some.”

Damian shakes. This, this feels like a trick. A trap. He should bolt while he can, but he can’t get his limbs to cooperate. Wilson can’t be—can’t have been _honest_ the whole time.

In what seems like a blink, Wilson’s uniform is readjusted, mask pulled back into the place. Deathstroke’s single eye glitters down at Damian from behind it. “Does that make you less of a slut than your brothers, or more?”

He’s gone before Damian can come up with an answer.


End file.
